


Midnight Poison

by Maeve_of_Winter



Category: The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Background Sexual Activity, Dan Mangan: Human Disaster, Gen, Original Female Character - Freeform, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, POV Outsider, Recreational Drug Use, Teen Party, spiked drinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misery loves company: while Dan is out drowning his frustrations as a party, he finds someone else who can commiserate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Poison

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place almost directly after Mystery at Maypenny's.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful editors, Julie W and Jenni F, who both had an enormous hand in shaping this story.
> 
> The inspiration for this piece was the prompt of “the scent of roses” from the May prompt thread on Jiximetri.
> 
> I welcome constructive criticism on all of my works. If you want to leave a comment, that's perfectly fine, but if you'd prefer to send a message, my email is goldphoenixrising@yahoo.com.

Grateful that she’s wearing her sneakers, Greta Reinhardt takes the stairs two at a time as she descends into the school basement. Unlike Alexandria, she has no desire to be down here any longer than necessary. Glancing uneasily about the dimly lit corridors as she walks, she combs her fingers through her long wheat blond hair, a nervous habit she's held for as long as she can remember.  

From the stairwell, she winds through a labyrinth of doors and hallways before she finds herself at Alexandria's lair. A banner tapestry hangs over the doorway, bearing the Latin motto, “ _Aut Viam Inveniam Aut Faciam_.” Inside, a crystal chandelier illuminates the room, which is furnished with a mahogany coffee table, an Oriental rug, an overstuffed leather armchair, and an oil-rubbed bronze floor lamp with an elephant base. 

In the armchair sits Alexandria St. Wolfgang, absorbed in the original French text of _Les Liaisons Dangereuses_. Her long, slim legs are propped up on the coffee table. The pearly beads of her cascading earrings gleam in the light, a sharp contrast against her sleek waves of dark hair. Her hair is loose, tumbling over one shoulder, exposing the graceful line of her alabaster throat.  

She glances up as Greta enters the room. “Game today?” she asks, catching Greta's outfit of a field hockey T-shirt, athletic shorts, and sneakers.  

“Home, against Central High,” Greta confirms.  

Alexandria nods. “I have a tennis match.”  

Greta withdraws a thick military biography on Hannibal from her Guatemalan weave backpack. “Here's the book you lent me. Thanks, by the way. It earned me extra credit on my report.”  

Alexandria accepts the book with a smile. “Ah, one of my favorites.”  

“You don't say,” Greta muttered, with an oblique glance at the stack of war strategy books on the coffee table. “Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you- book club is changed from Thursday at lunch to Friday after school.” 

“I'll be sure to be there,” Alexandria replies. “I'd hate to miss what is sure to be a _fascinating_ discussion on Jodi Picoult's latest.”  

Greta frowns at Alexandria, who raises a brow in response.

“Anything else?” Alexandria inquires.  

“There’s a party at Kendall Gregor’s house on Friday. Are you going?” Greta winds a strand of hair around her finger.

“Indeed. I have some meetings arranged there,” Alexandria reaches for her book. 

“Let me guess. Someone inadvertently offended you somehow, and now you have to break that person to completely destroy individual spirit?” Greta queries. 

“Don't be ridiculous, Greta,” Alexandria says. “You act as though I'm some sort of scheming chess master who manipulates everyone around her for her own selfish purposes. Please. I'm not a comic book villain.”

“Hmm,” is Greta's skeptical response.

“Besides,” Alexandria adds, “I would never act simply out of wounded ego. That sort of pride only brings the ruin of oneself.”  

“No doubt,” Greta remarks, turning and departing from the lair.  

“Good luck at your game!” Alexandria calls.  

Greta gives an unenthusiastic thanks. She doesn't return the wish, though; Alexandria doesn't need luck for the type of games she plays.

 

* * *

 

The music isn’t as loud as one would think it would be at some wild teen party, but then again, this party is fairly contained, even subdued.  There’s no keg, for one thing, just liquor raided from the cabinets, and it’s mostly high school athletes, no stoners or college students. Girls’ field hockey, boys’ football, some lacrosse players, some cheerleaders, a few basketball and volleyball players, and other  students from miscellaneous sports teams. Everyone’s staying indoors, even though it’s just slightly breezier than usual for a September night.

Greta is standing in the large foyer of the big, fancy house of Kendall Gregor, one of her field hockey teammates. Kendall’s parents are at their beach house in Virginia, but Greta somehow doubts they would mind if they knew what their daughter was doing.

Lukewarm soda in hand, Greta leans against a wall, having deliberately separated herself from any group. Not to be rude to anyone here, but she doesn't want any part of these events.

“Brooding, again, Greta?”

Swim team star Aimee Sinclair stands before her, toffee tresses in tousled curls and eyes winged with black liner. Her skintight coral minidress matches the orange of her spray tan.  

“Just hanging out,” Greta responds with a casual shrug. Truthfully, she’s guarded- she’s never been able to get a read on Aimee’s sincerity, and Greta has always found her demeanor somewhat too superficial to ever trust.

“You shouldn’t be so serious all the time!” Aimee’s scolding is playful and her white smile is wide, but Greta feels her hackles rise all the same.

“Here.” Aimee plucks the soda from her hand and pushes an open bottle of Blue Moon in its place, wrapping Greta’s fingers around the bottle. “Drink this. You need to loosen up.”

Greta glances at the bottle. “Aimee, I don’t-”

Aimee waves a hand. “Drink? You’re at a party. You might as well. And it’s just a beer. People might start to think you’re a snob if you only come around to show how you follow the rules.”

Greta opens her mouth to protest, but Aimee is already turning and walking away. “That beer is nothing! I want it to be all gone when I come back to check on you!” She strolls into the next room, and Greta’s eyes follow her.

Aimee joins the group in the dining room. From where she’s standing, Greta can see hostess Kendall Gregor herself and some of the other field hockey girls snorting powder off the polished cherry table. Greta knows their habits well enough to guess that it’s likely a mixture of ground Adderall and Ritalin.

Even in the midst of getting high, her teammates look like magazine cover models. Dressed sexily in sequined tube tops and hiphugger jeans, with flowing manes of hair and sultry makeup, they look good, ready to party and have fun. Greta herself is just barely passably dressed in a red button-down with tiny white polka dots and rolled sleeves, slim-fitting blue jeans, and scrolled Western boots. Her makeup is casual, just enough to be noticed, and only a woven headband saves her sidebraid from being generic and plain. There's no use sugarcoating it: she looks boring, like someone who doesn't belong at a party. Maybe there's some truth to that.

The first fall SATs are next weekend. Greta knows she ought to be at home studying, no matter what comments her parents make in the vein of her being an anti-social loser. She has an AP bio exam and two essays due next week; she never should have let her parents’ urging to be outgoing and attend Kendall’s “sleepover” get to her.

Greta presses her lips against the brim of the nearly full beer bottle, briefly sipping. Only a few drops of the brew enter her mouth, but even that’s enough to make her grimace. She prefers wine coolers, honestly, but it’s so easy to lose count with those types of fruity flavored drinks. And while her parents are always telling her to be open to new ideas, they’ll murder her if she comes home drunk or hung over.

Honestly, she’s sorely tempted to drown herself in alcohol, just for one night. Chug bottle after bottle until she can’t think or feel, and then have permission to be ill and miserable the next day.

That can’t happen, of course. She has papers to write, tests to study for, and parents to please.

Looks like she’ll just have to mope sober, then.

Greta tilts her head back against the wall, and it occurs to her just how tired every inch of her being is. Her limbs are heavy, her head aching, her eyes grainy and dry. She could sleep for days; she wouldn’t mind pulling a Rip Van Winkle and slumbering through the next few decades.

Ennui creeps into her bones, tendrils stretching outward and snagging her muscles, coiling around her body like chains. God, she misses the summer; in comparison, school is confining and beyond repetitive. Early mornings for school, late evenings for field hockey practice, late nights for studying, all the time for trying to keep her parents off her back. Rinse, add, repeat.

In an odd way, school makes her nervous. Greta has many friends, but few particular friends who are truly trustworthy and dependable. Not to mention all the usual high school drama she constantly tries to keep a distance from- there is always some new rift dividing classmates, and Greta forever has to tread carefully to avoid offending anyone. Such a great deal of high school existence is eternally unnecessary arguments, pointless posturing, and needless backstabbing; can Greta honestly be blamed if she wants to seek solace in textbooks to escape from all of it? If she ever wants to leave this hellhole, a college scholarship is a good way to start.

What’s more is that there’s always this pressure while school’s in session, these endless requirements that do not come free of stipulations. She has to be attractive, but never work for it, because wearing makeup makes her shallow and high-maintenance. Be intelligent, but not too much so, and never care about anything academic outside of class, or she’ll be a boring know-it-all. Be sexy, but not sexual, because wanting or enjoying sex makes women sluts but men normal.

At the same time, Greta feels that she has to be ambitious and want it all- popularity, beauty, accolades for athletics and academics- but, to the same degree, that she should feel guilty and greedy for lusting after so much, because it’s too much. Yet giving up makes her a failure, a wimp. A quitter.

But even as she tries her damnedest, Greta can’t ignore the sneaking suspicion that everyone- her friends, her teammates, her family- is secretly rooting for her to fail. Not for revenge, because Greta has never been a significant enough factor in anyone’s life for them to truly hate her, but merely for schadenfreude, the satisfaction of watching someone be brought down by her own ambition, her own want.

It’s not only subliminal demands at school from students, teachers, and coaches- Greta feels it at home, too, and perhaps the strongest vibes emanate from there. Sometimes, she gets the impression that her parents, even as they demand only the best from her, think she's uppity for trying to succeed in such a variety of ways.

All she ever does is give and give and give- one of these days, there's not going to be anything left. Greta can sense a burnout approaching, that one of these days, she's not going to be able to make a one hundred and ten percent effort, not if she never receives anything in return.

Basically, this anxiety accounts for why she's here tonight. Greta knows if she doesn’t attend parties, she'll have no chance at a social life, or she'll be considered a snob who thinks herself morally superior to her peers. If she does go to parties and have a good time, she’s thought of as a superficial, hedonistic skank.

The compromise, Greta thinks sardonically, is to attend parties and sulk about how much it sucks to be popular the whole time she’s there, while music from the world’s smallest violin soars in the background.

Speaking of music, someone has amped up the volume of the sound system, to enthusiastic bellows and shrieks. The pounding bass does nothing to assuage her headache, and Greta sags lower against the wall, her knees buckling in exhausted exasperation. She needs to get away from this chaos. Massaging her temples, Greta makes a beeline for the sliding doors leading out to the back deck.

On her way, Greta passes multiple familiar individuals. Cain Carcer is in a corner, practically entwined with two very pretty persons, who are probably both girls, but knowing Cain, maybe not. Sunny Constantinos is in an argument with Zephyr, his younger brother and a high school freshman, about his presence at the party, demanding Zephyr go home. Jerry Vanderhoff and some other football players have started a game of regular poker, with their own personal cheerleading squad, to boot, while Karoline Raleigh, Niall Knox, and Richard Gentry are gathered in a circle, discussing medieval trade economics. Greta doesn’t even double-take as she catches their words when walking by.

Alexandria is here, too, and has already vanished upstairs with a couple of upperclassmen, but Greta doubts it’s for anything but some elaborate new scheme. It’s doubtful that Alexandria St. Wolfgang would need boys- or anyone else- for sex. She’s always been too remote, too above it all, for those types of human vices.

That’s probably the most prominent aspect of Alexandria’s personality: she never needs anyone, never wants anyone. She exists completely independently, content to sit out of sight in a basement storage room, plotting the downfall of everyone in the high school classrooms above her. She orchestrates masterfully, barely having to lift a finger herself; people are dominoes to Alexandria, and she only has to push one to make them all fall over.

If there's one person Greta wishes she could be more like, it's Alexandria. Greta just wrote a composition class paper on Martin Luther King, Jr. as her personal role model, and at last year's field hockey banquet, she gave a gushing speech about the high esteem she held for that season's team captain. But Greta's regard for either of them is nothing compared to her deep admiration for Alexandria and how much she desperately wishes to be as removed and calculating as she is.

Surreptitiously, Greta slips out onto the elaborate deck and slides the door shut behind her. She wants to enjoy the cool night air and leave behind the booming beat of the music.

Apparently, she isn’t the only one. At the other end of the deck, two girls untangle from each other, hurriedly breaking apart from their embrace upon her arrival.

“Sorry,” Greta says awkwardly, berating herself for intruding upon the couple’s private moment. She actually sips her beer this time, if only to have an excuse to keep quiet.

Neither of the other girls responds as they pass by Greta to descend the desk staircase, likely relocating to another spot where they can be uninterrupted. Though she doesn’t honestly know either of them, Greta thinks she has seen one of them featured in the newspaper for a volleyball championship at one point.

They’re probably heading down into the area with the garden. The Gregors have a wonderful and expansive array of plants, practically a miniature jungle. Their maze of sprawling rosebushes and towering trellises woven with climbing vines would be an excellent place for hide-and-go-seek, a game Greta adored when she was a child.

She and Alexandria played that game frequently when they were young.

The night wavers around her, and Greta holds her palms to her head, trying to ease a sudden sensation of dizziness. She focuses on her breathing, long inhales, slow exhales, and the lightheadedness recedes.

She props her elbows up on the sturdy deck railing, gazing up at the moon. Clumps of clouds drift across the moon's face, momentarily bringing its light to fade, but nothing manages to completely dim the blue-white illumination.

The night breeze flutters the fall leaves, and Greta pulls her headband off, stuffing it in her jeans pocket, and threads her fingers through her long hair. Her braid unwinds, and she tilts her head back, letting the light wind ruffle the strands. She’s not sure how long she stands there, gazing up at the night sky and enjoying the quiet.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” 

Greta jumps, startled. She whips around to find that another person has arrived at the far end of the deck.

It’s Dan Mangan, the supposed former delinquent, though many rumors around school hotly contest the “former” part. She’s surprised to see him here; his usual group of friends is the Bob-Whites, a club at school. Greta doesn't know any of the club members personally or have much of an opinion on them. The general impression of them at school is that they are a clique of rule-abiding, if elitist students from socially and politically powerful families. According to almost everyone at the high school, Dan was selected to be the token member from an actual working class background.

“Yes,” Greta says, recovering quickly. “It’s very nice.” To compensate for her lame reply, she grabs her beer bottle and moves closer to him to show her interest in the conversation. He’s also having a beer, and like hers, his bottle is more than three-quarters full. Not much of a drinker, then.

“Nighttime is always my favorite part of the day,” Dan tells her. “For anything, really. But especially for driving and enjoying nature.”

Greta herself is too tongue-tied to respond. She wants to tell him about the summer when she was learning to drive, and how she would keep practicing till after dark. One night, when her car reached the top of a hill, she could see out over the farmland, and all the fields were filled with lightening bugs, blinking on and off. It had been beautiful to witness, and the closest she’s ever been to magic in her lifetime.

But self-consciousness prevents her from exposing that precious moment to someone she barely knows, and she can’t find the right words to tell him, anyway. All she can concentrate on is how what the girls at school say is true: he does look like Adam Gregory, that one male model.

A silence stretches between them thanks to her lack of fundamental conversational skills, one that Greta feels obligated to break. The experience is particularly odd because they can hear the muted whoops, laughter, shouts, and music from the inside of the house, making their absence of conversation all the more noticeable.

Her mind frantically searching for a topic of discussion, Greta settles for small town politics. “So, it’s a relief to have that debate over the International Pine expansion settled, huh?”

Dan takes a long pull from his bottle before answering. “I live right by the area International Pine was planning to develop.”

Mentally cringing, Greta flounders for a suitable response. “I guess you weren’t for the expansion, then.” Her statement is so obvious that she inwardly rolls her eyes.

“I wasn’t,” Dan says. His tone is distant rather than condescending or annoyed, either of which might have been Greta’s reaction to such an obtuse remark. “My friends were all about it, though. They practically broke out the golden shovel to begin construction for the factory the moment it was announced.”

By “friends,” Greta is fairly sure he’s referencing the Bob-Whites. While out of all of the Bob-Whites, Dan does have the most friends outside of the club (in spite of being a rumored criminal), the club consists of the people with whom he’s closest.

She’s saved from responding and making an ass out of herself yet again when Dan continues. “I can’t believe they would do that to me, you know? It's the only home I've had in a long time.” He takes a swig of beer. “Elijah Maypenny has done so much to help them, too. Did they forget how much he helps with all of our projects? With the bikeathon?”

“I remember that day. I was visiting my grandparents.” Greta’s parents dragged her along, and Greta agreed to go on the condition that she be allowed to use her father’s laptop for her science fair paper. Her father packed his laptop, but predictably, forgot the charger, leaving her with less than ten percent battery power. Greta had no choice but to stay up until past midnight the next few nights to finish the paper in time.

She’s not quite sure who this mentioned “Elijah Maypenny” is, but she now recalls that Dan has some sort of unconventional living arrangement because he doesn’t have parents. More power to him.

“Jim the naturalist was all over the idea, parroting whatever his father had to say about it.” Dan shakes his head emphatically. “It's weird because we're a lot alike, me and Jim, but neither of us seems to want to admit it, you know? I don't think either of us wants to remember what happened to us. People might think I'm jealous that he got adopted into a wealthy family, but I'm honestly not. I know I would never feel comfortable in that kind of life, like you're living under a microscope. I'm jealous that he can cope with everything that happened to him so easily. It's really easy for him to pretend, but I can never forget anything, never live anything down.”

Unsure of how she should react to this unexpected and rambling admission, Greta eyes the beer bottle in his hand, suddenly questioning her assumption that Dan hasn’t consumed much alcohol. Pouring out his grief and frustrations to a basic stranger certainly suggests otherwise.

“Regan really does like him better than me,” Dan goes on. “Regan likes all of them better than me. Most of the time, he acts like I'm nothing but an inconvenience for him. He has a point, but still. He told Trixie that it's my own fault when people treat me badly. Right after I rescued Bobby and was trying to protect him and Trixie from that mountain lion. ”

Who the hell is Regan? Is fighting mountain lions a normal pasttime for Dan? Greta stands there, wondering if there's anything she can say that will have any value to Dan. Her parents always said she lacked people skills. She considers casually sipping at her beer, but doesn’t want to risk slopping it all over herself.

“It’s so rough with all of them sometimes,” Dan says raggedly. “They're all true blue and well-intentioned, and then there's me. Sometimes, I'm glad my parents are dead. I wouldn't want them to be alive and hate me. I think they would.” His shoulders shake, and it takes Greta a moment to realize he's silently laughing rather than crying.

Greta blinks. She honestly doesn’t have any strong opinions on the Bob-Whites, not as a club or as individuals. Now, she can’t help but speculate on Dan’s presence and purpose in the club, as well as this “Regan” person and Dan himself.

One thing is certain: there's no way he can make it home by himself. Reaching a decision, she starts for the door, and then whirls around. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

Dan does not respond, only takes another gulp of beer.

Grimacing, Greta turns go back inside the house, before thinking of something else. “Did you drive here?” she asks, her mind racing ahead, already planning on how he would retrieve his car tomorrow.

He shakes his head. “I’m only fifteen.”

That’s right. She always forgets he’s only a sophomore; he carries himself with such quiet confidence and sophistication that he seems older, at least a junior like her.

Entering through the doors, Greta hurriedly weaves around partygoers, scanning the room. If Cain is sober, he would be willing to give her and Dan a ride, but considering his earlier activities, that’s a big “if.” Her own teammates are probably long gone on illicit substances, but maybe Sunny could-

Her thoughts are interrupted when she rounds a corner and collides with another person. For a moment, her body falters in empty space, but gravity wins out, dragging her down, further and further-

A hand grasps her arm, holding her upright, and Greta finds herself staring into Alexandria St. Wolfgang’s cold eyes.

A vague memory drifts through her mind, of when she and Alexandria were ten and playing on the same intramural soccer team. She was a forward, tearing down the field and making the goals, while Alexandria was a goalie. Though Alexandria wasn't a very good player, she gave it her all. At the end of games her knees would be grass stained and rubbed raw from diving for the ball, most times unsuccessfully, but she was always good-humored, laughing at her mistakes and learning from them.

The room shifts around them, and Greta suddenly has difficultly recalling the urgency of her task, or what the task actually was.

Alexandria, like always, is elegantly dressed like some sort of vintage vampire. Greta would never have the nerve to wear the clothes Alexandria does, nor would she be able to make them look half as good. Tonight's outfit is a sheath minidress of sangria red, with a translucent overlay of black floral lace. The three-quarter sleeves are completely sheer from the shoulders downward, and the sweetheart neckline extends in a sheer expanse of lace over the collarbone, looping in a collar at the neck.

Alexandria’s mouth moves, her words buzzing in Greta’s ears, but Greta has no idea what she’s saying.

One day, when Alexandria's father was in town, he took her and Greta out for ice cream after their soccer game. She can't remember if they won or lost the game, but the afternoon was bright and sunny. They sat outside at a picnic table to eat their cones as he told them about his travels in Europe. Alexandria promised she would join him there one day so she could see him more often.

Tonight Alexandria's trademark chandelier earrings are multiple gunmetal silver chains. Each chain has a crimson teardrop dangling from the end, the varying lengths of the slim chains creating a cascade effect.

Mesmerized, Greta reaches up and flicks one earring, hearing the _ping_ of her fingernail against the glass beads. It’s surreal how loud the sound is compared to all the music and other noise around her-

Alexandria shakes her, briefly but firmly, and Greta jolts back into awareness. She detaches her arm from Alexandria’s grip and takes a step back as Alexandria looks at her expressionlessly. She’s very good at that; the remote disposition seems natural on her ivory features, like she's some kind of robot. A vintage vampire robot? Alexandria the android?

Dan. Dan is waiting for her. He needs someone to help him.

“Hey, are you busy? I really need a favor.” Greta can only hope her voice doesn’t sound too desperate or whiny, but her lungs suddenly feel constrained.

 Alexandria nods and raises an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“I need to give someone a ride home, but I’ve already had a beer.”

Now that she thinks about it, Greta wonders if Aimee added something to the beer. Probably yes, if she intended to drink it herself. “He's waiting for me to come back-”

“Where is he?” Alexandria interrupts.

“On the back deck,” Greta tells her.

Alexandria says nothing more, just proceeds to the sliding doors. Following behind her, Greta can see that the rear of the dress is sheer lace until below the shoulder blades, with a latticework of silky red ribbon across the scoop back. The muscles of Alexandria’s toned back smoothly ripple and roll in time with her strides. Greta wonders if she would ever consider playing on a soccer team again.

She's relieved to find Dan where she left him. “Hey, Dan. We’re heading home. We thought we’d give you a ride.”

Not bothering to contribute any explanation, Alexandria grabs Dan by the arm and steers him down the deck stairs. None of them speak as they make their way to Alexandria’s gleaming black Audi; Dan seems too dazed for any sort of conversation. Before Greta has a chance to offer him shotgun, Alexandria is already stuffing him into the backseat and slamming the door closed behind him. She swings into the driver’s seat, and Greta settles herself into the passenger seat.

Just as Alexandria turns the key in the ignition, a possibility occurs to Greta. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?” she demands, panicked.

“Not a drop,” Alexandria responds offhandedly, too focused on backing out of the driveway to look at her.

Of course. Alcohol, to Alexandria, is fine wine served with dinner and precisely matched to the main entree, not illicit vodka shots at a party. With a sigh of relief, Greta lets herself sink back into the butter-soft leather seat and notes her surroundings. The interior of the car is all gleaming surfaces and modern sleekness, and the numerous lights and gauges on the dashboard seem more suited to a plane than an automobile.

Silence endures during the entire ride to Dan's house. Not once does Alexandria inquire about the way or ask Dan for directions, even when she turns the car onto a winding, narrow path that leads into the woods. She smoothly navigates the snaking trail, the placid expression on her face never changing. Greta thinks to question why Alexandria is familiar with the route to Dan's house, but is distracted by the hinged, clawed armor ring on Alexandria's index finger. The metal glints in the dashboard's faint illumination as she expertly handles the gearshift. Greta can't help but wonder if it was a purely aesthetic choice, or if Alexandria deliberately wore it to her “meetings” as a warning.

Eventually, Alexandria brings the car to a halt and steps out. Dan is already doing the same, so Greta follows suit.

They're standing just before a clearing, and beyond that is a cabin-like house. In the dim light, Greta can perceive dormer windows, and the farmer's porch is lit by sconce lanterns.

“Thanks for the ride,” Dan says, walking in the direction of the house.

Alexandria simply nods.

“Take care,” Greta calls. She hopes that he's too drunk to remember her and her completely banal personality.

Arms folded over her chest, Alexandria leans against the car and watches the night sky as Dan goes forward into the house.

“He was really upset about the International Pine expansion,” Greta says lowly, making a decision not to reveal any of the more personal things Dan told her. “I hope he's all right. I think he and those Bob-White kids were in a disagreement about it.”

“People do disagree when it comes to these matters," Alexandria tells her.

“Of course,” Greta replies. “But I thought that crowd was 'all for one and one for all.' That kind of thing. But all's fair in love and war, I guess.”

“Or when someone's family stands to make a fortune off of a new industry,” Alexandria says. Bitterness and cynicism are evident in her voice. The clear, unguarded expression of emotion brings Greta to glance at her quizzically.

Before Greta can respond, the ground is spiraling towards her, but once again, Alexandria saves her from total collapse. Dizzily, Greta focuses on the ground, and she can see that Alexandria's shoes are very similar in design to her dress. Suede gladiator stilettos of wine red, with an openwork floral pattern continuing to above the knees and finishing in fluttering ribbons.

Those kind of shoes fit Alexandria's personality well. Gladiator heels, because Alexandria is very much like a stoic warrior making plans for battle. For victory.

“Was that beer capped when you took it?” Alexandria asks, her voice warping in Greta's ears.

Shaking her head, Greta tries to stand, but sways and falls back against Alexandria. “It was open when Aimee gave it to me. I think she intended it for herself, so she already added something.”

“She takes her alcohol with Valium. How much of it did you drink?” Alexandria demands urgently.

“Less than a quarter of it.” Greta attempts to clear her head and think about the topic at hand. “But I think the real problem is that I'm tired, and I haven't eaten since breakfast. I had a granola bar after field hockey practice, but that was it. I was so busy with other things.”

“That would do it,” Alexandria says, her voice vaguely annoyed. She moves to lead Greta back into the car, but Greta grabs her arm.

“Let's never be like them, Lexi.” Greta can't stop the words from pouring from her mouth. She hasn't called Alexandria “Lexi” since they were kids, before Alexandria spent their freshman year of high school in Europe and returned a different person.

“I don't want our friendship to be ruined by a political decision. I know you like to be the mastermind and everything, but say you won't- let's not- we can't forget who we were, no matter what has changed for us.” Greta grips Alexandria's arm like it's her lifeline.

“It sounds so stupid,” Greta whispers, “but you're the only one of my friends I can actually trust.” 

God, how pathetic was that? The most dependable person of her entire social circle is the one with a basement lair where she plots to control everyone around her.

“Do you remember,” Greta finds herself asking, “when we played soccer as kids? One day, it started raining during practice, and you ran to the playground and climbed up that big metal slide-”

“That was a long time ago,” Alexandria says, her voice almost defensive.

“It wasn't that long ago.” Greta shrugs, embarrassed at herself for raising the memory.

“It was long enough,” Alexandria replies, an edge of forcefulness in her tone.

Greta doesn't say anything.

The night is still, and Alexandria is silent. The shakiness almost completely gone, Greta lets out a shuddering breath of relief. When she inhales again, she breathes in Alexandria's customary perfume; feminine and darkly romantic, Greta imagines its deep, sweet scent is the same as a wine of roses would be.

They remain as they are for several more moments. The beginnings of a fog start to roll in, wisps of ghosts settling around them.

Alexandria is the one to break the silence. “Come on. You can spend the night at my house. If you want, call your parents and tell them you had a fight with Kendall.”

“They don't need to know about any of this.” It's for the best. The less Greta is forced to speak with her parents, the better their collective mental health.

“That's your prerogative,” Alexandria informs her coldly, but then her voice fractionally softens. “I'm not going to judge you for whatever decision you make.”

She walks around the car to the driver's side, and Greta watches her. The added explanation, the reassurance to Alexandria's words . . . maybe Lexi is not as vanquished as Greta thinks and Alexandria wants her to be.

As Greta slides into the car, her mind whirs with questions about Dan and the Bob-Whites, and not for the first or last time, she ponders what went on in Europe to change Alexandria so dramatically. She glances at Alexandria, who is maneuvering the steering wheel with the practice of a race car driver.

They speed off into the night, leaving Dan's cabin behind them in favor of Alexandria's chateau. Greta can't help but think that it would be best to forget this night entirely, for both her and Dan.


End file.
